


FAREWELL TOUR: Part 3

by Avery11



Series: Farewell Tour [3]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-25
Updated: 2017-11-25
Packaged: 2019-02-06 10:55:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,426
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12816027
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Avery11/pseuds/Avery11
Summary: Illya reaches the end of his journey.





	FAREWELL TOUR: Part 3

**Author’s Note:** This is a three-part series. I wrote the first part nearly two years ago, and promised to finish the series as soon as possible. My apologies for the delay but RL can be unpredictable. Here, finally, is the rest of the tale.

Please read the stories in order. The entire series may be read as either Gen or Slash, and will make perfect sense, whichever filter you use. Love is love is love.

 **PART 1**  is here: http://archiveofourown.org/works/6274786/chapters/14377660

 **PART 2**  is here: http://archiveofourown.org/works/12816015

 **PART 3**  is here: http://archiveofourown.org/works/12816027

 

****

 

**Chapter 1**

From the air, the country of Bangladesh—known in 1970 as East Pakistan—was a lush green land. A patchwork of rice paddies dotted the landscape, bordered by tall stands of bamboo, and mile after mile of sandy coastline. Dozens of rivers wound their way through the countryside on their way to the Bay of Bengal, essentially turning the tiny nation into a series of islands. The Chittagong Hills in the southeast rose gently above the flat green land.

The place was much different when seen from the ground. Poverty was everywhere Illya looked, and many of the youngest children appeared malnourished. The annual monsoon season had finally ended, leaving behind a desolate landscape of mud, dead livestock and washed out roads. People waded though the waist-high water, their meager possessions carried in bundles on their heads, children clinging to their backs to protect against the venomous snakes and other dangers lurking beneath the surface of the water.

The road to Basurjani was impassable, the ticket agent informed Illya, so it would be necessary to take a ferry from Chanpur down the Padma River to Chowmuhat, and follow the coast from there. “Fifty rupees, _janaba_.” Illya paid the outrageous price, and squeezed into a corner at the stern of the boat beside a Pakistani military officer and a toothless old woman with a cage full of chickens.

The overloaded boat clearly had seen better days—whatever color the hull had been painted had long ago bleached out, and its motor wheezed and sputtered, belching out clouds of black smoke. At times the vessel seemed in danger of capsizing in the rushing current, its perpetual list to starboard drawing frightened gasps from the passengers and squawks of outrage from the chickens at Illya’s feet. Muddy water sloshed over the sides of the vessel, forming foul-smelling puddles on the floor. Children slept in their mothers’ arms, too exhausted to care.

The boat docked at a rickety pier on the outskirts of Chowmuhat, and the passengers disembarked with a sense of profound relief. Illya shouldered his rucksack, consulted the map—there was no cell phone service in this part of the country—and set off down the coast. His heart pounded with anticipation; in a few short hours, he hoped to have the answers he sought.

He paralleled the shoreline, alert to any disturbance in his surroundings. Some habits, he noted with wry amusement, were impossible to break. A troupe of rhesus monkeys in the nearby hills shadowed him, chattering as they swarmed through the vine-covered forest. Rainbow-hued parakeets sang in the treetops. In the waters of the bay, a pod of dolphins cavorted, slapping the water in their play.

A mile into the journey, it began to rain, a soft drizzle that quickly chilled Illya despite the heat of the day. He stopped under a banyan tree, donned his jacket and checked the map. _Almost there_. The thought left him feeling breathless and a bit lightheaded. He reached for his canteen—

_Find me._

In the branches of the banyan tree, the birds abruptly fell silent.

The canteen fell from his fingers, spilling its contents upon the sand. His legs gave out and he dropped to his knees, hands shaking, hardly daring to breathe.

“Napoleon?”

He strained to hear, but there was only the rustling of the leaves, and the gentle roll of the surf upon the shore.

The storm ended as swiftly as it had begun. The birds returned to their songs. Illya took off his jacket and pushed on.

He rounded the curve in the coastline, and nearly stumbled in his confusion—Where was the village? Where were the huts, raised high on stilts, their thatched roofs rattling in the breeze? Where were the fishermen with their brightly colored boats; the women weaving their baskets of palm fronds; the children splashing in the waters of the bay? All he saw was sand.

_This cannot be right._

He checked the map; checked it again. There was no doubt about it; he was in the right place, but the village of Basurjani was gone.

In the distance, he spotted a lone _bainkata_ by the water’s edge. A fisherman sat crosslegged on the stern of the vessel, mending his net.

“Hello?!”

The old man looked up, startled. _“Āpani ki cāna?”_

 _“Bhaẏa pābēna nā.”_ Illya replied, grateful that he’d had the foresight to memorize a few key phrases in Bengali during the flight into Chanpur. He held out his hands to show he meant no harm.

After a moment, the old man nodded.

“Basurjani?” Illya gestured at the empty sand.

The man pointed toward the hills. _“Basurjani sarbasbānta. Basurjani, sēkhānē. Basurjani pāhāṛē.”_

Illya’s eyes tracked the gesture. “Long way?” He stretched his arms out wide.

 _“Nikaṭabartī._ ” The old man held his hands together.

Close by. He bowed in gratitude. “Thank you.”

_“Āllāh tōmāra maṅgala karuka.”_

Illya retrieved his rucksack from the sand, and began the climb into the Chittagong Hills. The old man returned to his task, but his eyes followed the progress of the pale stranger for a long time.

*/*/*/

  
**Chapter 2**

When Illya reached the village at the crest of the hill, he was surprised to find a young nun waiting for him. She was dark-skinned and very pretty, dressed in the simple smock and white veil of a novice. She carried a basket filled with oddly shaped green fruit.

She smiled, and held out her hand. “I was in the orchard picking jackfruit for our supper, and saw you coming. I’m Sister Claire.”

He took the hand. “Illya Kuryakin.”

“We don’t get many visitors here, as you may imagine. Your presence has caused quite a stir.” She gestured toward the growing knot of spectators gathered at the edge of the village.

“I see what you mean.” Illya waved in greeting. “Actually, I’m hoping to speak with a member of your Order—Sister Mary Luke MacDonald.”

“Who?”

“Mary Luke—” He stopped at her puzzled expression. “You’re from the Convent Of The Little Sisters Of Charity, aren’t you?"

“Yes, but we have no sister by that name.”

Illya’s hopes plummeted.

"Of course, I only arrived a few months ago, so I’m not the best person to ask. Our Mother Superior, Sister Immaculata, has been here since the beginning. Perhaps she will know more. If you will follow me?”

She led Illya through the tiny hillside village, waving to people as they passed. Children ran up to her, tapping eagerly at the pocket of her habit. She laughed, and surrendered a small box of raisins for them to share. Illya thought that the villagers looked happier and better nourished than those he had seen in the city.

Sister Claire opened the gate leading into the convent grounds. They passed a vegetable garden and a small white church with a damaged steeple. The sound of hammers reverberated from somewhere inside. “The rains were heavier than usual this year,” she reflected. “There are always repairs to be made.”

They walked on, past a one-room schoolhouse and a whitewashed cottage with a red cross painted on the door. “Our medical clinic. Several of our sisters are trained midwives, and one is a registered nurse. They handle everything from sprained ankles to snakebites to delivering babies. A doctor comes out from Chanpur once a month to treat the more serious cases.”

She halted before a dormitory, its boxy facade softened by the profusion of roses planted around the foundation. “This is where the nuns live. Sister Immaculata’s office is inside. If you will please remove your shoes?”

Illya did as instructed, and they stepped across the threshold. It was cooler inside, although not by much. Sister Claire led Illya down the short hallway, and stopped before a plain white door. She knocked softly. “Mother?”

“Come.”

The office was simple, spartan. A desk and two chairs had been placed beside the open window to catch the breeze. A battered file cabinet stood in one corner. Above it, a photograph of the current Pope smiled down at them. A simple wooden crucifix hung over the door.

“Mother, this gentleman has come to speak with you.”

“Thank you, Sister Claire. You may return to your duties.” The door closed softly behind her.

Sister Immaculata gestured toward the second chair. “Please, be seated and tell me how I may help you.”

Illya took the proffered seat. “My name is Illya Kuryakin. I’m here to speak with one of your nuns, Sister Mary Luke MacDonald. Sister Claire thought you might know her.”

Sister Immaculata’s eyes widened at the sound of the name. She reached up to touch the crucifix at her neck. “Yes,” she replied softly. “I knew her.”

“Knew her?”

“Sister Mary Luke died last year. She is with Our Lord in Heaven now.”

 _Dead_. Illya’s heart sank.

“Did you know our sister, Mr. Kuryakin?”

He shook his head.

“And yet you came all this way to see her—a woman you never met?” Sister Immaculata sat back, clasping her hands before her. “Forgive me for prying, Mr. Kuryakin, but why—?”

“A friend of mine disappeared in this part of the world thirty-five years ago. I’m trying to find out what happened to him.”

“Thirty-five...years?”

 _Something in her voice..._ “Yes.”

“And you suspect he may have come here, to Basurjani?”

“I’m certain of it.”

“To see Sister Mary Luke?”

“I believe so. Napoleon was a student at the Mayfair Preparatory School in London, where Sister Mary Luke once taught. There’s a graduation photo on the wall of his apartment—” He stopped.

Sister Immaculata’s eyes had filled with tears. “You say his name was Napoleon?”

Illya’s heart began to race. “Napoleon Solo.”

“Do you have a photograph?”

He held out his cell phone. Sister Immaculata stared at the photo of Napoleon at the wheel of the Pursang, and nodded. “Yes, that’s him.”

Illya leaned forward, hardly daring to believe. “He was here? You remember him?”

“Oh yes, I remember. Your Napoleon would be a difficult man to forget. Such kind eyes.” She sighed. “I’m afraid there’s no easy way to say this…”

 _No!_ Terror settled in the pit of Illya’s stomach. He steeled himself to hear the words.

“Napoleon Solo—may he rest in peace—died in 1970. I’m so sorry.”

_Too late too late too late_

From some unfathomable place of disconnection, Illya watched the Mother Superior rise; walk to the door. Her voice trembled. “Sister Claire, would you be good enough to bring a pot of tea for our guest?”

“Yes, Mother.”

She stood there, clutching the rosary beads at her waist. Her lips moved in prayer.

Illya sat very still.

“Napoleon Solo,” she murmured at last. “Who could forget such an unusual name? The moment you said it, I knew it had to be the same man, the one who came to visit us all those years ago.

“He came in on one of those Army helicopters. ‘Hitched a ride with an old friend from Korea,’ he said. It landed on the beach, back where the village used to be. We all came out to watch it land—it was a rare occurrence, and quite spectacular.” She smiled at the memory.

_Hitching a ride on military transport—we never thought to check that._

“Sister Mary Luke was over the moon with happiness. She couldn’t wait to show him where the church was to be built, and the school, and the clinic. Of course, back then all we had to show for our efforts was a few thatched huts the villagers helped us build, but she saw the possibilities.

“Your friend stayed with us for nearly a week. He helped to pour the foundation for the new church, and he tilled our garden every afternoon. He even cooked supper for us one night—a quiche Lorraine, I believe it was. Delicious.”

A series of soft knocks interrupted her. The door opened, and Sister Claire entered with a tea tray and two slices of thick, dark bread. They waited while she poured the tea into the dainty china cups. She bowed and left the room as quietly as she had come.

“How did it happen?” Illya asked softly. “How did he—?”

“Yes, of course. Forgive me, Mr. Kuryakin. It’s a difficult tale to tell, even after all these years.” Sister Immaculata took a deep breath, preparing herself.

“Unbeknownst to us, a powerful cyclone had formed overnight in the Bay of Bengal. We had no radio back then, you see, and no electricity, so we were completely unprepared for what was to come." She sighed. "We had just finished evening prayers and were walking back to our quarters when the storm struck. The wind gusts knocked us off our feet, and then suddenly the water came rushing in off the bay. Most of the villagers were asleep at that hour. We heard the screams.

“It was terrifying. Pitch black—there was no moon—and a high tide. The wind, howling; debris flying everywhere. And the water, rising higher with each passing second. We tried to run, but our habits weighed us down, pulled us under.”

Illya gripped the arms of the chair with deadly calm.

“Before we knew what was happening, the current took two of our sisters. It ripped Sister Patricia and Sister Mary Therese from our arms, and they went under. We never saw them again.” She crossed herself, murmured a blessing.

“Just when we thought all hope was lost, Napoleon arrived—the answer to our prayers. He pulled us from the rushing water, and led us up into the hills where the storm surge couldn’t reach. When he was sure we’d gone high enough, he turned around, and went back to rescue the villagers.”

_How like Napoleon--charging headfirst into the chaos. Calm, strong, sacrificing everything for the sake of an Innocent, just as he’d always done._

“He saved dozens of lives that night, many of them children. Back and forth he went through the rising water. He was tireless, driven. And then, one time—” Sister Immaculata’s voice cracked. “One time, he didn’t come back. We waited all night for him, praying. But he never—” She shook her head.

“The storm washed away everything in its path—the village, the boats, even the sand on the beach--everything was gone. “ A tear trickled down her cheek, unnoticed.

“And Napoleon?”

“We found his body the next day. It had been carried a mile inland on the tide.”

 _His body_.

“We buried him in our cemetery. It’s not far; I can take you there if you like.”

Illya felt the first stirrings of rage. “You knew he was dead! All this time, you knew? _Bozhe moy,_ he had sisters waiting for him back home! An aunt! Friends-!”

"You never knew? Dear God." She stared at him in shock. "We gave his name to the government relief team, along with all the other dead and missing. They promised to notify the families.” She sighed. "Then again, thousands of people died during the storm. I suppose, in all the confusion—"

Illya nodded to himself. "Yes. Of course." 

Her gaze softened. “I don’t know if this will bring you comfort, but I believe your friend was happy here, in his final days.”

“Thank you, Sister. I will try to remember that.”

*/*/*/

 

**Chapter 3**

The convent’s cemetery sat on a lush green hill overlooking the bay. There were perhaps two dozen graves, each with a simple wooden cross to mark the passing of a life. Sister Mary Luke’s resting place was identical to all the others—a final act of humility, in accordance with her vows.

Napoleon’s grave stood alone on the crest of the hill, sheltered beneath the limbs of an ancient banyan tree. A bench had been placed beside it, overlooking the sea.

_Napoleon would have liked that._

The headstone was carved of granite, unlike the other, simpler markers. His name, and the dates of his birth and death were carefully etched onto the face of the stone. The inscription tore its way into Illya’s heart.

**A HERO LIES HERE.**

Illya stared out at the water, calm and blue as it caught the last rays of the setting sun. He tried to imagine it on that long-ago, fateful night: the howling wind, the towering wall of water roaring toward Napoleon, and the realization that he couldn’t outrun it.

_Did he know? Was he afraid?_

Illya hoped with all his heart that it had been swift.

He took a seat on the bench; closed his eyes; listened to the gentle roll of the surf and the plaintive cry of a nightbird. He tried to imagine a world in which Napoleon still lived…

_The two of them sitting side by side on a bench by the sea, having survived the bats and bees and spiders and whatever diabolical disaster du jour the latest megalomaniac had devised for their amusement…_

_This is nice, Illya. Just the two of us, no distractions. No ambush by evil THRUSH goons, no need to save the world._

“We should have done this years ago.”

_How could we, with THRUSH hellbent on destroying civilization as we know it? Not to mention all the revolutions, border skirmishes and whatnot. It’s a wonder the human race is still standing._

“THRUSH is gone at least. We defeated them, took out their last satrapy back in 1989.”

_Good riddance to bad rubbish, I say._

“I wish you could have been there to see it.”

_Napoleon smiles. What makes you think I wasn’t?_

_His hair is white now, a shock of white above pale hazel eyes. Illya thinks the changes suit him, make him look distinguished, ambassadorial. The smile is unchanged from the early days, a smooth blend of humor and sophistication that will forever be Napoleon Solo._

A gentle rain begins to fall, a fine mist that blurs the edges of things. “I’m sorry, Napoleon.”

_Sorry—?_

“I should have been there.”

_Napoleon’s expression speaks volumes. What could you have done?_

“Saved you.”

_Or maybe both of us drown, and then who's left to save the world? No, Illya. One of us had to survive, to lead UNCLE after Mr. Waverly’s assassination. I’m glad it was you._

They sit in silence, watching the gulls swoop and glide above the bay.

 _I hear Ka’apanunu’s running the show at UNCLE now. Good man_.

“He has a difficult road ahead of him—Al Qaeda, Boko Haram, the Taliban. Not to mention the drug cartels and the Russian oligarchs.” Illya shakes his head. “New villains for a new century. A new cast of characters. Nothing changes.”

_Another smile. There will always be evil in the world, just as there will always be good people to fight it._

A sigh. “Do you ever wonder—” Illya hesitates. “—what we missed? What sort of life we might have had?”

_Napoleon’s eyes are suspiciously bright. Every day._

The sun dips below the horizon, casting the world into purple twilight. The breeze picks up, rustling the branches of the banyan tree. Bright green leaves fall, one by one, upon the grave.

_Napoleon stretches, catlike. It’s time to go…_

_...not yet oh please I'm not ready! '"_ Napoleon…don't..." Illya opened his eyes. The first stars had begun to appear, distant memories in an endless sky. The moon rose, pale and full, shimmering on the dark waters of the bay. The moment had come at last.

Illya took Napoleon’s badge from his pocket; caressed the smoothness of the plastic, traced the number **11** etched upon its surface. He knelt, and laid it against the headstone. “Rest now,” he whispered. Tears spilled down his cheeks, mingling with the rain.

*/*/*/

 

  
_Written in memory of Robert Vaughn._

  
**Author’s Note** : The Bhola cyclone of November, 1970 was a real event. The suddenness of its formation left coastal populations completely unprepared. By the time it passed, it had claimed at least 500,000 lives, making it the worst natural disaster in modern times.

 


End file.
